


Lies

by Mawgon



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mawgon/pseuds/Mawgon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfrid hates dwarves. He hates men, too. And he suspects he would hate elves if he ever met one. He never lets it show, though. He is a master of flattery and faked admiration. Which is why it comes as a surprise when that one dwarf sees right through his lies. And then does not even hate him for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for this prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=21113343#t26416639
> 
> "I sort of realized that i may be slightly in love with Alfrid, actually.Would anyone pair him with any dwarf for me? Or write something gen about him. I don't care. I just want to read something about him."

Alfrid despises dwarves. That doesn’t mean much, of course, as he cannot stand men, either. Still, the Master ordered him to see to it that the dwarves have everything they need, and that means he has to be around dwarves. Which he hates. Even though it is maybe a bit better than spending his time with the Master. Who expects permanent groveling.

Alfrid glares at the back of the dwarf who is apparently busy carving something silly out of a piece of wood.  
„Do you need anything, Master Dwarf?“ He has experience in disguising the resentment in his voice. 

“Me? No. You, on the other hand ...” The dwarf puts his carving knife away and pats the bed. “Sit down and take a break. Must be exhausting to pretend you don’t hate us all this time.”

“But ...” He clears his throat and says in an oily voice “I am honoured to be of use to you! You are all such brave warriors and ...”

“Nonsense. Stop it, will you? All that lying can’t be good for you. You have to let your feelings out.”

Too shocked to reply, Alfrid actually sits down on the bed. The dwarf – it’s the one with the funny hat – returns to his carving. 

There must be a reason for this. “Why do you even care?”

The dwarf chuckles quietly. “Not used to kindness, are you?”

He is. There is always something behind any kindness, one only has to dig deep enough. “You won’t get preferential treatment.”

“Aye.” 

“I won’t use my influence on the Master to help you.”

“If your influence was that strong, you wouldn’t have to do all that groveling. And I know you are not the one with the money, either.” The dwarf happily hums while he works on his woodcarving. It doesn’t even resemble anything in particular. Just some ugly lump of wood. 

Then why? Alfrid doesn’t ask aloud. Instead, he silently racks his mind. Not influence. Not money. “Are you trying to frame me for some crime?”

The dwarf laughs. “Getting creative, eh? I just like me a bit of good, old-fashioned honesty, that’s all. And people shouldn’t be as miserable as you are. It’s just wrong. I don’t want something from you. You have nothing I want.”

“I still have my body.” That must be it. Alfrid has no illusions about his attractiveness, respectively lack thereof, but that is the only remaining option. 

“Why would I want that? I have my own body, and I’m not the sort of necromancer or stuff who would be in need of someone else’s.”

The dwarf misunderstands him on purpose. Annoying. “That is not what I meant.”

“Then what ... oh!” Suddenly, the confused expression turns into understanding. “You mean ... ugh, no. That’s disgusting. I prefer my own hand.”

Alfrid should be used to it, but it still hurts a bit. It would be less painful if the dwarf had been angry about the implication that he desires males. As it is, the statement seems to be purely about Alfrid’s looks. 

The dwarf looks directly at him, seems to ... see through him. “Oh, I didn’t mean you. Just that human custom of renting someone’s body. It makes no sense. For one, it’s expensive. There are lots of slanderous rumours about dwarves, but it is true that we are thrifty. Why pay for something you could just as well get by using your own hand?”

Alfrid doesn’t know what to reply, but apparently no answer is expected. The dwarf is in full flow. 

“And then there’s the fact that ... it is just disgusting. Like necromancy. To use someone else’s body. That’s twisted.”

“That is not how it works.” Alfrid had his own reasons to never pay for a whore, but he does know some facts. “You just pay for a fuck. That’s all. Not for ...” He has no idea what the dwarf even means.

“Maybe I got it wrong. But. You pay, right? You don’t have to pay for some fun between the sheets.”

“If you are ugly, you do.” No one knows that better than he does. 

“But then it’s not fun. Why would you want to spend time with someone who thinks you’re ugly? I’d rather be alone.” The dwarf shudders visibly. “The whole thing is so sick and twisted. You pay nice, shining gold coins to get to use the body of someone who, for all you know, hates your guts. I mean, half the fun is in the fact that someone thinks you’re hot, aye? If they think you’re ugly, you’d be better off using your own hand.”

“Maybe.” Alfrid bites his lip. He does not like to be seen through. And this dwarf has come dangerously close. Alfrid never paid a whore because he could not stand it. Knowing that she detests him, that he disgusts her ... it would be worse than the lonely pleasures he can give himself. Some men pay extra for a whore to pretend that she thinks them attractive, but that would be useless. For all that he is an expert in lying to others, he is not good at lying to himself. He would know. “Someone as handsome as you wouldn’t even have to think about it”, he adds, bitterly. 

“Oh.” The dwarf straightens, puffs his chest and strokes his beard. “You consider me handsome?”

It is an alien feeling, to see someone act so flattered just because Alfrid paid him a compliment. His compliments are cheap ... and usually untrue. This one was not, and the reaction makes him feel heat deep down in his belly. Damn. He cannot let the dwarf know how he really feels. “Oh, certainly”, he continues in his slimiest voice. “The most handsome dwarf I have ever met ... not that I have met so many ...” That should do the trick. 

“You are not just saying that because you think I expect it?”

Alfrid shrugs. “You said having someone think you hot was half the fun – still think so?” he says, careful to keep any emotion out of his voice. 

“Maybe not half.” The dwarf smiles. “Could be only a third. In any case, it does make me feel nice and tingly all over.” His smile changes, subtly, as he licks his lips. 

Alfrid does not know what this expression means, he only knows that it makes him feel strange. Warm, even hot, though he is sure the temperature in the room has not changed. 

And then he realizes what it is. Lust. “You do not desire me.” It is impossible. And limited as his knowledge of women and courting is, he knows that a bluntly stated compliment by someone as ugly as him is usually not welcome. Insincere flattery, yes, but nothing that comes with the implication that he would like to ...

“You can read thoughts?” The dwarf is grinning now, stands up from where he sat and moves closer, like a cat stalking its prey. 

“No – I ... I just ...”

“I thought so. You guessed wrong.” The dwarf comes even closer, tilting his head to keep eye contact. “I admit you’re a bit tall for my taste, but I could get used to that.”

“You do not want to ...”

“Stick to talking about your own wishes, will you?” The wink the dwarf gives him could almost be called flirtatious. If that was not impossible. 

His own wishes? Alfrid knows what he wants. With surprising clarity. If only he could offer his body in exchange for money, then he wouldn’t have to admit that ... but the dwarf made it clear that’s not on the table. “Have you done it with a man before?” he asks to buy himself some time. 

“No, only with dwarves.”

What? “Male dwarves?”

“Oh, that. Of course! You haven’t?”

“No. I ... am not even sure I like it.” It never sounded really appealing. Sure, he was attracted to males before, but the things they could do in bed ...

“Do you want to find out?” The dwarf removes his hat and bows mockingly. “Bofur, at your service. My nimble fingers are legendary. Want to know what my other talents besides woodcarving are?”

Alfrid stares at him, blankly. This can not be happening. 

“Maybe you want to go for a kiss, first? To help you figure it out?”

A kiss. That sounds ... good. Not too unfamiliar. At least he has seen how that is done. He gets up from the bed and goes down on his knees to make up for their size difference. “I heard that ... dwarves are very peculiar about who touches their beards ...”

“Don’t worry about that. That’s about random strangers thinking they’re allowed to touch.” Bofur comes closer. “You are not a stranger ... Alfrid, right? I would like to get to know you better.”

Alfrid dares to extend a hand, and Bofur promptly grabs it and presses it to his bearded cheek. “Exactly like that”, he says, his voice almost like the purr of a cat. “No need to be shy. I have told you you can touch.”

The beard feels softer under his fingers than he would have thought. He extends his thumb, slowly, to steal a touch of the pink lips. Those, too, are softer than he thought a creature made of stone has any business being. 

When Alfrid leans in to kiss, he realizes that their noses are in the way, but Bofur tilts his head before that can become a problem. 

His head swims. Knowing that his lips are more sensitive than the calloused skin of his fingers is one thing, experiencing it – touching those surprisingly soft lips of someone else – is something entirely different. 

For a moment, he is completely lost in the sensation. Then, he hurriedly withdraws. 

Big hands steady his trembling shoulders. “And? What do you think? Want more?”

“More kissing”, he murmurs, still feeling a bit dizzy. 

“Aye. Can I touch your hair?”

“Yes?” He doesn’t quite understand what it is about, not before the sensation of soft lips on his returns and he feels fingers threading through his hair. Stroking it. 

If only he could pluck that moment from time and hide it away with the secret hoard of money under his bed.  
There is something in this he cannot grasp, something that makes him happier than any amount of money ever could. 

He imitates the movement, grabs Bofur’s hair, clumsily and greedy. More. He needs more of this. More memories of soft lips on his, of stroking hands in his hair. 

Of course it cannot last. 

“If you laid down on that bed, your being so awfully tall wouldn’t be such a problem anymore”, Bofur suggests. 

It is only then that Alfrid notices that his knees hurt from the prolonged kneeing on the hard floor boards. 

The bed, then. There is, he supposes, a price to be paid for so much pleasure, and he cannot even complain that the bargain is an unfair one. Alfrid has likely endured worse discomfort than what is to follow.  
He kicks off his boots and removes his socks, too, because they are almost as dirty as the shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

Then Alfrid lies down on the bed and Bofur climbs on top of him, though the dwarf seems to not put his whole weight on Alfrid’s stomach, instead parting his thighs around him, kneeling on the bed. 

The sight is strangely arousing. 

“Another kiss? Or do you want to get out of those clothes?”

“The latter.” Better get this over with now. If he gets another kiss, maybe he will not be able to leave. The sensation is rather addictive. 

“Getting too tight for comfort in there, eh?” Bofur ... grinds against him, and Alfrid can just bite his lips in time to stifle the noise that tries to escape him. 

He doesn’t answer, it is more likely a rhetorical question, anyway. Instead he starts to disrobe. It is not easily accomplished, as it is cold outside and he had no idea he would have reason to take off his clothes during the day. 

Bofur shifts position to enable him to take off his trousers. “Is it normal for men to be so thin?”

“Yes, why?” Of course a dwarf would not find his body attractive. 

“You look so fragile.” Bofur extends a hand, and carefully touches Alfrid’s shoulder. “I can see your ribs.”

“It’s normal.” He shivers, not from the cold. It is feeling this gaze on his body that makes him feel strange. No one ever looked at him like that. 

“Good to know. Do you like your nipples touched?”

Alfrid nods, even though he has no idea. He cannot speak, not when his body seems intent on making nonsensical noises. 

Rough, calloused fingers caress his shoulders, then his chest, then ... a soft moan escapes him. His nod was honest, after all. 

And Bofur seems in no hurry to proceed. Instead, he smiles like a cat that got the cream, and continues running his calloused thumb over Alfrid’s sensitive nipple. 

“You really do like that.” 

Alfrid glares at him. He is not a plaything! He had his pleasure and will pay the price, but ...

“Oh – too much? Sorry about that.” Bofur moves his hands, tracing every one of Alfrid’s ribs. 

Alfrid flinches. His broken rib is okay, mostly, but still hurts when touched. 

Bofur doesn’t touch the broken rib. “What happened?”

“What?”

“This rib was broken recently, and not set properly. Even I can see that, and I’m not even a healer!”

“So what? My ribs break easily!” This one was the Master shoving him into a corner in a fit of rage. It happens occasionally. 

“I am worried, is all. Do you want to stop this? You seem to not be in the mood anymore.”

Alfrid stares at the dwarf. Just ... stop? Without getting where this is headed? That sounds good. Like cheating. Alfrid likes cheating on others, normally. It’s a small triumph each time. Getting something for nothing. One never knows when the bad times will come, after all, and he has to watch out for himself, no one else will. 

Now, though ... “I just don’t want to talk about my ribs. Continue.”

“Oh. Alright. Just, maybe you should see a healer about this. Bones breaking easily might be a symptom of something worse. Óin would know ... alright, I will shut up now.”

And shut up he does. Instead, he runs his hands all over Alfrid’s body. Chest, belly ...

Alfrid tries not to writhe too much, but it is hard to just lie there, growing harder with every touch of those rough hands. His arousal is embarrassingly obvious, and he can do nothing against it. Emotions he can disguise, not this. 

“You are so nicely proportional ...” Bofur licks his lips, his gaze now directed, shamelessly, at Alfrid’s groin. 

“Proportional?”

“Long and thin. Wait, I will show you.”

First, Bofur removes his shirt, revealing a broad, hairy chest without any visible ribs. Alfrid wonders how it would feel under his hands ... soft and yielding, probably ... warm ...

His gaze is drawn lower. “Oh.” 

Apparently, dwarves are short and thick everywhere. This ... might hurt more than he thought it would. 

“Are you disappointed?” Bofur watches his face closely. 

“No ...” He just had not expected ... on the other hand, he rather likes the sight. “Surprised.”

Bofur chuckles. “Me too. I could just get you off with my hand, but that would be no fun. Let’s see ... think you can fit comfortably between my thighs?”

Before Alfrid can ask any questions, Bofur rolls off of him and lies down next to him. “There. If I lie here, you could lie on your side, and then ...”

After following some instructions, Alfrid finds himself rutting into the deliciously tight space between the other’s thighs. His hands explore Bofur’s furry chest, the soft belly, and finally he allows himself to touch the thick member. 

The moan that follows surprises, almost shocks him. Such utter lack of self-control!

And yet, it is strangely intriguing. Such blatant proof that someone is enjoying his touch. Blissfully ignoring that the world does not, cannot work like this, he rubs his erection against the other’s thighs and continues his touches. 

“Alfrid ...”

He wonders, for a moment, what the question is, but then realizes there is none. And forgets to bite back his own moan as he climaxes. 

Only then, in the warm, blissful moments that follow, does he question the events. He got a perfectly pleasurable kiss, and in exchange ... got satisfying, not at all painful sex and now holds a very handsome dwarf in his arms. Naked. The world does not work this way, at least not unless Alfrid manages to cheat it for his own profit. 

This time, he has not cheated. At least not on purpose. Maybe he accidentally did, though he has no idea how. He remembers, fuzzily, that he even decided against cheating, this one time. 

It is all so confusing. How did he even end up in this situation? Oh, right ... “Bofur?”

“Aye?”

“Actually, I don’t have to pretend that I don’t hate you.” And, most confusingly, that is actually true.


	3. Chapter 3

The other dwarves seem to be in a hurry to get rid of Alfrid, so he soon only has Óin left, who also tries to get rid of him. 

“And there is something else”, Alfrid says quickly and rather loudly, to make sure he is understood. “Bofur told me you’re a healer and could do something about my broken rib. How much?”

The old dwarf adjusts his ear trumpet-thing. “What?”

Instead of trying to ask again, Alfrid takes his purse and shakes it. The sound of coins is, in his experience, something that immediately draws anyone’s attention. Even if said person is hard of hearing. 

It is like that with Óin, too. “Ten”, he replies. “Ten of those ugly coins.”

Alfrid doesn’t bother to hide his smile. The new coins are minted with the image of the Master on it, and he always considered that an unfortunate choice.

“So you have a broken rib? Show me.”

Alfrid unbuttons his shirt, the second time this day. He is not surprised that the dwarf suddenly remembers a sentence he allegedly didn’t understand before. 

“That’s a badly healed break there”, the healer mutters and touches it. A sharp intake of breath is the only reaction Alfrid cannot suppress. 

“How come Bofur told you I’m a healer?”

“He noticed the rib was broken.” 

“Ah, did he? Now, I will have to break that again. Want something to bite on?” 

“I will manage.” Alfrid takes care to place his tongue safely behind his teeth to not bite on it. If it had not been Bofur who told him that it is not set properly, he would not have trusted Óin on this, but ...

The pain is bad, though not worse than when he got his rib broken by the Master, just more expected. With an ugly noise, Óin pushes the bone together in what Alfrid hopes is a better position than it was beforehand. 

“There. Try to breathe normally, even if it hurts.” Òin reaches into a bag. “Put this healing salve on it. And wait here, I have to talk to someone.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he wants to talk to Bofur. Alfrid takes his time to apply the ointment, then tiptoes out of the room, to where Bofur’s room is located. 

He doesn’t even have to listen at the door. Even though it is closed, the voices within are loud enough to be heard outside. 

“You did what?!” Óin’s voice. 

“What are you, my father? I don’t recall any condition in my contract that puts you in charge of with whom I share my bed.” Bofur, of course. 

“But that slimy, spit-licking liar?” 

“Don’t call him that! It’s not his fault the Master wants slimy flattery and false smiles. We all do what we can to get by. You didn’t see him, sitting on my bed like a lost puppy. He was surprised I had some kind words for him! Immediately thought I must be after money, or something, the poor man.”

A puppy! Of all things! But Alfrid cannot bring himself to be seriously annoyed. 

“And you thought it a good idea to show him you are after his body.”

“What? No, it ... it’s not like that! I ... “

Not like that? Alfrid feels a pang of disappointment. What is it like, then?

“That’s what he will think.”

“Oh crap! No! I didn’t realize ... what can I do to ...”

Alfrid moves away. He has heard enough and it always pays to be safely away before the conversation ends and the door is opened. 

So Bofur doesn’t think him attractive. Well. It was to be expected. Listening at doors seldom brings pleasant news. What then?

Bofur does not seem to have thought it through, so an elaborate scheme is unlikely. What can he have been after? Fun ... yes, that seems likely. He just wanted someone to share his bed with and Alfrid was willing.   
The fact that Bofur considered him tolerable for the sake of fun still is the highest compliment anyone has ever paid Alfrid, and for that, he is grateful. 

 

When Óin returns, Alfrid stands around, looking as bored as he can. 

“When was that rib broken?”

Alfrid is startled. “Why would that matter?”

“When?”

Stupid, stubborn dwarf. “About a month ago. I fail to see how that would matter.”

 

“It was hardly any effort to break it again. That should have been way more difficult. And you told Bofur your ribs break easily ...” The healer frowns. “What do you eat? Fish?”

“Millet and lentils. Sometimes cabbage and parsnips.” He didn’t much care for fish. “Beef when I can afford it.”

Óin nods. “You need to eat more bone broth. And forest mushrooms. Fish wouldn’t be bad, either.”

“Bone broth?” 

“Made of bone marrow. You know. The stuff inside bones. Didn’t your parents teach you anything?”

“That is disgusting.”

The dwarf shrugs. “It is that, or have your bones break all the time. Or you could try out the elven healers’ recommendations. Sunlight and green vegetables.” Óin shudders. “A lot of sunlight. On your bare skin! And I won’t even start with how much leafy green vegetables they say one should eat.”

“Alright.” Alfrid closes the buttons on his shirt. In his opinion, green vegetables are not as bad as bone marrow. Mushrooms ... they sell those on the market, some are not too expensive. Sunlight is harder to come by, as he really doesn’t want to expose his body – it is not much to look at, and he does not work hard, so he doesn’t have the excuse that he’s sweating like the fishermen do. 

“Wait!”

When he turns, the dwarf hands him a couple of coins back. “I meant nine silver coins, actually, not gold.”

“Oh.” Alfrid pockets the coins, and, in his confusion, walks away without a goodbye. Likely, the dwarves don’t care one way or the other. They aren’t much for flattery, he noticed that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to write another chapter and get Alfrid's broken rib fixed. (While I try to make it somewhat plausible, this is not medical advice to rely on.)


	4. Chapter 4

Alfrid hates the cold, and as a result, hates washing his hair during the winter months. He also hates spending money, so he really doesn’t know why he not only makes the effort to take a bath and wash his hair, but also puts on a clean set of clothes, which will result in having to pay the washerwoman more next week. 

Only, actually, he does know. Much as he hates to admit it even to himself. It is the hope that, if he puts enough effort into it, Bofur might actually be after his body. 

He does his round through the house as fast as the previous day. None of the dwarves really want to talk to him, even though Óin seems to be a bit friendlier and asks how his rib is. They seem used to getting their stuff done by themselves. 

Bofur is busy carving this time, too. “Oh, it’s you. Just sit there and wait a moment, will you?”

Alfrid sits on the chair next to the fire, as asked, and watches Bofur finish his carving. “What do you think?” Bofur hands him the finished carving. 

“It is ...” Shapeless. Vaguely formed like a person, but nothing definitive. And yet, there is something fascinating about it. An ethereal kind of beauty. It reminds Alfrid of something, though he has no idea of what. “Interesting.” 

“Glad you like it! It’s for you, actually.”

“For ... me?”

“Why, yes. Don’t look so surprised, it’s only wood.” Bofur sits down next to him. “I like to make those. It’s relaxing. Not really a trade by which one could earn money, mind – I used to work as a miner.”

“Ah.”

“I would like to be a toymaker, you know? Making people happy, that’s what I like best. But people don’t want to buy toys for their children when they have barely enough food, and to trade with men, well that ... didn’t work so well. So mining it was. Coal mining, mostly. Nasty work, with no shining jewels to show for it. But it puts bread and the table ... with my big family ... that is, Bombur has a big family, lots of children. Bifur, you have probably noticed, has an axe in his head. People think he’s crazy, so he wasn’t able to get work, even though he’s completely well adjusted, just not able to talk Westron, you know?”

Alfrid nods, only half aware of what Bofur is saying. It is the first time anyone has given him anything ... or ... no that is not entirely true. 

 

There had been this old widow, living next to Alfrid’s family. One day, she just had handed him a doll, made of rags, and told him that it used to belong to her daughter, who was long grown up and married. “Not a boy’s toy”, she had said and showed a toothless smile. “But I thought ...”

What she had thought, she never said, but Alfrid had kept the doll. Never played with it, of course. His brothers would have laughed at him. Maybe taken the doll away and destroyed it, they were like that. Sisters, he had none. 

The doll became his secret. He kept it under his clothes during the day, and under his nightgown at night. In the rare moments when he was alone, when all his brothers were outside, he would take the doll out and stare at it. Maybe cradle it in his arms and imagine, for a moment, that it was his baby sister. 

 

“How is your rib?”

Alfrid blinks. Oh, right. The pain in his chest, he almost forgot about it. “Painful.”

“Can I have a look?”

Why not. Alfrid unbuttons his shirt, and lets Bofur look. Only, the dwarf doesn’t just look, he takes out a jar with salve. “Óin gave me that. Maybe you want me to apply it? Easier that way?”

“Yes.” It hurts, no worse than when he did it himself, rather less, but still. Not that Alfrid cares much. The feeling of warm skin on his own is ... special. So special he is almost disappointed when Bofur is done. 

Those gentle hands are wasted working in a mine. He is not too sure about the carving, but if Bofur likes that ... “Do the children in your family work in the mines?”

“What?” Bofur seems startled. “Oh. No, no. None of them are of age yet.”

“Ah. I thought ... I heard about places where they employ children in the mines. Because they don’t need as high shafts.” He read that in a book in the Master’s office. 

“Whoever would do such a horrid thing?” Bofur asks, then answers himself. “Men ... no offense meant, but dwarves would never do that. The mines are a dangerous place and no dwarf ... no real dwarf, that is, would ever allow any harm to come to a child.”

“There are unreal dwarves?” Alfrid’s lips twitch as he suppresses a smile. 

Bofur wrings his hands. “You know what I mean.”

“Are children more valuable than adults, then?”

This causes Bofur to frown. Apparently, he does some deep thinking before he responds. “No ... just ... you see, an adult dwarf is hardy like rock. We are not easily killed. The young ones ... well, they’re like soft clay, you know? And the ones who seem grown up but are not yet there ... they’re like dry clay that’s not been hardened in the fire yet. It is our duty to protect them until they can protect themselves.” 

The soft expression on Bofur’s face seems weirdly ... honest. Like he actually means what he says. 

“And before you get nitpicky about that, of course we also protect adults in need of protecting. Just, most can look after themselves just fine.”

“One should think so.” They are all so sturdy. “What about women?”

“Female dwarves, you mean? Aye, sure, they usually give birth in a safe place and stay there for weeks after.”

“But you don’t protect them when they aren’t pregnant?”

“What from? Giving birth is about the most dangerous thing one can do. Would be rather silly to expose someone to that risk if you aren’t going to let them work in mines or fight orcs, aye?”

“If you put it like that ...” He will not ask how female dwarves are protected from their own males. Real dwarves certainly don’t rape, and Bofur will not want to talk about the “unreal” ones. “So you like to make toys?”

Bofur chatters happily for a while, but then looks at Alfrid, frowns. “I don’t want to keep you from your work ... would hate for you to get in trouble because of me.”

He is right. Much as Alfrid would like to stay, there is only so much he can get away with by claiming that the dwarves need lots of attention. 

Alfrid briefly considers asking for a kiss, but decides against it. He will not beg. Spineless as he may seem to others, there are things even he is too proud for. 

So he leaves with a mere “Goodbye.”

 

In the evening, he takes out the woodcarving Bofur gave him. It is confusing. Why would someone just give him something? He had almost forgotten about the doll – though he keeps it safe in his pillow, he had not often thought of how he came to own it – and now this ... why? Sure, it is just made of wood, and could not be sold for much money ... still, Bofur must have worked on it for quite some time, and also seemed satisfied with how it turned out. 

Alfrid turns it in his hands. Much as he would like to place it somewhere he can see it, that would not be safe. While it is not valuable, someone could notice that he likes it, and that would be reason enough to steal it. 

He tries to find a good place for it, but keeping it with his money does not seem safe, so he shoves it into the pillow – makes for hard sleeping, but at least that way he will know where it is.


	5. Chapter 5

When he sees Bofur the next time, he knows it is the last time. The dwarves will be gone come morning. And maybe die in their quest. 

Bofur smiles at him, but it is not a real smile. 

“You told me not to pretend I’m happy, so why do you do it now?” He is not really angry just ... confused. 

“Sorry about that. It’s just ...”

Alfrid closes the door behind him and goes down on his knees to be at eye level. “What is it?”

“We are all going to die.”

That’s probably true. Alfrid had tried not to think about that too much. “You could just stay here?”

“Not possible. I gave my word to follow Thorin. And I want to – I am just scared.”

“You are very brave.” It is something Alfrid has never been able to understand. He would never put his own wellbeing at risk for the sake of some idea or worse, person. And he had thought it the stuff of legends. Nothing that happened in real life. Yet here is Bofur, saying that he will go and face a dragon because he has given his word. 

“Not half as brave as I would like to be.”

And yet, too brave for Alfrid’s tastes. He opens his arms to try and maybe hug Bofur, but before he can make a decision on whether to ask or just try, he has his arms full of dwarf. Bofur snuggles into his embrace, even now mindful of Alfrid’s broken rib. 

Alfrid just looks at him for a while. It is strange to know that someone who seems so real now might be dead in a couple of days. Life is such a fragile thing – maybe that is one of the reasons why Alfrid prefers material possessions. 

“Kiss me?”

Much as the request surprises him, he happily obliges. To feel those soft lips once more, the roughness of beard hair ... and the hands on his neck. He shivers. No one ever touched him like this, as if he were a precious jewel. 

“Bed?”, he asks when they part. If he can get some more pleasant memories out of this last meeting, he will take them. “It’s your last night here ...” He has not forgotten how horrified Bofur was at the suggestion that he could get the wrong idea. “We are not likely to meet again once you are a noble in Erebor.” Or dead.

“Aye.” Bofur smiles, a sad smile, but a honest one. 

Alfrid gets up and undresses himself, swiftly as he planned forward this time and wears fewer layers than usually. 

“I want you to lie on your back this time.” He doesn’t know where he gets the confidence to say that – maybe it is because he never heard an angry word from Bofur. 

And he hears none this time, either. “Sounds good.”

The hat is the last item to be carefully placed on the bedside table. Without it, Bofur suddenly looks much more naked. 

Alfrid licks his lips. He is not used to such a ... yes, glorious sight. What he knows is his own frail, wiry body. 

Muscles visibly move under Bofur’s skin as he sits on the bed and lies down. “Like what you see?”

“Very much”, Alfrid murmurs absently. Only a moment later does he realize what was asked and what he said. His face heats, his stomach tweaks with embarrassment. 

Bofur only chuckles. “Nice to know it’s appreciated. Want to touch?”

Oh, how very much he wants to!

He sits down on the bed and places his hand cautiously on Bofur’s shoulder. When that is met with approval he grows bolder. His thumb on a nipple is met with a shameless moan. After that, he runs his fingers through the chest hair, then bows down for a kiss ... a kiss on Bofur’s exposed neck ... 

“So good ...” The words fade into another moan. 

No shame. Absolutely no shame. But what for? Bofur’s naked body is glorious and all the noises he makes sound delightful. 

“Please ... need you ...” The sentence ends in a gasp for air, but Alfrid can guess at the meaning.   
He revels in the feeling that he is wanted, needed even. 

“Closer ... touch me?”

Oh yes, he knows what is meant. Alfrid kisses Bofur’s thigh one last time, then attempts to wrap his hand around the erection. It’s too big. 

“Please ... no ... not your hand.” Despite his words, Bofur seems quite happy to rub against his hand. 

“Oh.” He can hardly believe anyone would want to ... still, he positions himself so he sits over Bofur’s hips. 

“Aye, just like that.” A big hand wraps around their erections, presses them together, and Alfrid gasps in surprise. 

“Hurt you?” Bofur’s eyes are wide open all of a sudden. 

“No, just ...” He feels unable to speak more, so he just moves. 

The next couple of moments is filled only with heavy breathing and moaning. Bofur’s eyes are half-closed again when he comes with Alfrid’s name on his lips. 

There is one moment where Alfrid doesn’t think, just enjoys. Afterwards, he tries to make sense of it. 

Certainly it was just the heat of the moment. Bofur has made very clear what he feels so ...

“Come here. Cuddle.”

And just like that, he is in Bofur’s arms, embraced like an oversized doll. 

Alfrid cries silently into the bedlinen while big hands run over his chest. He would not be able to say why, though hopefully no one but him will ever ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how many chapters this story will have. Somehow I don't seem able to stop writing, even though it is increasingly difficult to get into Alfrid's mind. My interpretation of him is rather complex; he has lots of issues.   
> Feedback on how believable he reads would be appreciated. As would feedback on my language - most of the time I am not sure whether I use the right words.


	6. Chapter 6

When the dragon comes, Alfrid is prepared. All the things he values most are sewn into his clothes.

It is when he looks into the water illuminated by dragonfire that he realizes that he knows this shape. It is his reflection, and it also is what Bofur’s woodcarved figure shows. 

There is not much time to ponder it. 

 

When the orcs come, Alfrid is prepared to run away. Disguised as old woman, so that no one will try to bully him into fighting for people who never cared about him. And with all the money he could grab. 

Two children, an orc blade glinting in the light. 

Alfrid’s arm is between the two before he realizes what he is doing. 

The orc keels over dead, killed by an unseen blade. More running. 

 

When he can think clearly again, he is in a makeshift sick bay and someone is splinting his arm. The money is gone, but the hard wood of Bofur’s gift is still a calming presence pressing into Alfrid’s side. 

Hours, maybe days of agony pass by. The arm must be infected with wound fever. 

Someone shakes him awake. “Are you Alfrid?”

“What do you want?” And doesn’t everyone know who he is, anyway?

“I have a letter. Now, are you?”

“Yes! Now, give it to me!”

“You look way less slimy than I remember.” The girl sneers, but hands him the letter. “That’s one copper.”

He doesn’t answer, too busy ripping the letter open with his uninjured hand. His head hurts when he forces his eyes to focus on the letter, but he manages to read the few lines. 

“Alfrid, 

I so hope you are alive. Please do come to the mountain, or at least send me a letter back. 

Bofur.”

Well. This is unexpected. They were supposed to never see each other again ... but he doesn’t object. 

“One copper.”

“Wait, I write an answer.” 

She looks at his broken arm. “I don’t think so. Two copper pieces and I take a message back.”

Alfrid pats his pockets, and actually finds a small copper coin. “There. That’s all I have. You’ll have to take your payment from the letterwriter.” 

The girl takes the money, frowns, and shrugs. “Alright. So, what do you want me to tell him?”

“That my arm is broken and I feel to sick for walking. And where I am.” 

“Just that?” 

“What more?” There is nothing else to say. Certainly nothing he would want to discuss with a stranger. 

He drifts back into half-consciousness after that. 

Until someone shakes him awake. “Where did you get that?”

Alfrid blinks. It’s just Bard. “What?”

“This scarf.” Bard nods to where his daughter stands. “It belonged to the woman who saved my daughter’s life. You stole it!”

“That one’s mine. Bought it at the market.” 

There is some murmuring that he doesn’t understand, and then Bard starts accusing him anew.


	7. Chapter 7

“Leave him alone!”

Alfrid’s heart jumps. Is that ... Bofur?

It is. The dwarf stands over him, proud and strong, and Bard steps back. 

Bard explains his reasoning, this time in a calmer voice. 

“That’s not true”, Bofur states. “And we are taking Alfrid with us. Your lot did a terrible job with his wound.”

There are other dwarves, and they lift Alfrid on a sort of stretcher. 

 

They carry him into a hall with a stone ceiling. He gets wood to bite on and also a hand to hold while someone cuts his wound open again and washes it. 

“It’s almost over”, Bofur says softly. “Almost over.”

And then, finally, it is over and his arm is splinted and bandaged again. Someone holds a cup to his lips, and he drinks the bitter liquid. 

When he wakes up the next time, the headache is gone and he feels better. 

“Welcome in Erebor.” Bofur’s grinning face is all he can see. A sight he wouldn’t have thought he’d ever enjoy again. “How do you feel?”

“Good, I think.” Better than before, at least. 

“I’m sorry we found you so late. You were so brave!”

Brave? He? In other circumstances, he would grasp the opportunity to make himself look better, but not now. He can’t lie to Bofur. “Actually, I tried to run away.”

“You were injured while protecting children.”

“How do you know?” He doesn’t even know himself why he did that. His feverish mind only supplies images that make no sense, ones of unfinished clay sculptures and rag dolls. 

“The orc blade met your arm at an angle that indicates you must have raised it. The blade hit your upper arm, so you must have extended your arm in a way which makes no sense if you were defending yourself. Also, the angle at which your arm was hit indicates that you were shielding someone smaller than you.”

“You can really tell all of that from looking at my wound?”

Bofur chuckles. “No, just kidding. Actually, I talked to Bard and he insists a nice elderly woman protected his daughters. And I have seen this scarf – allegedly her headscarf – on you earlier.”

“Oh.” His face heats with shame. Bofur is so brave and strong, and he ...

“I knew you are special. Just knew it.” 

This all makes no sense. Maybe now is the time to talk. “I ... have to confess something.”

“Aye?”

“When Óin talked to you, about me, I ... I listened.”

“Oh.” Bofur’s smile fades. “What did you hear? And ... what do you think?”

Alfrid closes his eyes. “You said you don’t like my body. I think that is only natural.” Even though it hurts. 

“I never said anything like that!” 

He keeps his eyes closed. It is safer that way. “He said I might think you want my body, and you said ...”

“No! No, no, no! You misunderstood that! He was worried you might think I am only nice to you because you are handsome.”

“And what would be wrong with that?” It would be very flattering. 

“Well ... I sort of would like you to know that I, you know, like you. And also, I am a bit worried that ... you didn’t only have sex with me because you thought you owed me because I was kind to you ... did you?”

Bofur ... likes him? He dares to open his eyes again. “What is wrong with paying a debt?” People usually expect to be repaid. “I did get into bed with you because I owed you.”

Bofur’s jaw falls. “But ... but ... we talked about ... I told you I didn’t want that! And ... and you said you thought me handsome ... I shouldn’t have taken advantage.”

He looks ... disappointed. Sad, even. Alfrid feels an urge to comfort him, though he is not sure how to go about it. “You are handsome”, he begins. “And I ... enjoyed it. I just thought it would hurt, and I would not have agreed to that if I had not owed you. You didn’t take advantage of me, it was entirely fair.”

“You thought I would hurt you?!”

Why is this so difficult to understand? 

“Not that you would punch me in the face or something. Just ... I never was in bed with a male before, and I thought it would be more ... like it’d be with a woman ...” Not that he has much experience, there, but he is relatively certain that he knows what goes where. 

“Women hurt you in bed?” Now Bofur seems confused. 

“No I ... I thought you’d want to stick your dick into my asshole, right?” He bites on his lip. Such crude language he usually aims to avoid, it speaks of his lowly origins. 

“Oh. Oh that.” Bofur’s eyes widen. “You didn’t think you could just have told me that you didn’t like it? Am not much into that myself, actually.”

“I just thought ... you would expect ...”

“So Óin was right. I shouldn’t have ... tell me, the second time ... did you ...?” Bofur’s facial expression seems fragile, as if the wrong answer could shatter it into a thousand pieces. 

“The second time was because I ...” Alfrid swallows. “I really liked the first time.” 

“That’s good to know ... but ... you don’t sound happy.” 

“I am confused ...” Why does he admit he likes it? Does he not know, from bartering on the market, that whenever you admit to like, let alone need something, you will be charged a higher price?

“Alright then. Take your time.” Bofur’s smile breaks through his concern like sun through clouds. “I will go fetch something to eat for you, you must be starving.”

He is not hungry. Not hungry enough, at the very least, that he would want Bofur to leave just because of that. He does not beg him to stay, though.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just fluff. There will be a lot of hurt-comfort-y fluffy stuff. With some disgusting descriptions of bodily functions, because Alfrid seems to demand that. (I think he was the only one with rotted teeth in the movie, which is weird once you realize that they probably don't have dentists but do have white flour and all that)

Alfrid is surprised when Bofur actually returns after a short time, with a bowl of soup. “There. Hope you like it.”

It is warm and so full of fat that there’s only one single grease drop on the surface. When he sets the bowl down and lets himself sink into the bed, he notices that there’s a pillow in his back, keeping him seated. Bofur picks up the bowl. “Had enough already, or are you just tired?”

“Tired.” 

“I can help you.” 

He nods weakly, and suddenly there’s a strong arm around his shoulder, and a big hand lifts the bowl to his mouth. “There.” 

When he has finished drinking, he looks at his surroundings with more awareness. They seem to be in some hall and he is bedded on straw and furs, not a proper bed. “Where are we?”

“Main hall, close to the entrance. Óin wanted to waste no time before treating you, and it’s not as if we got far with cleaning the place, so ... but I asked Bifur to clean out one of the rooms for you.”

“So you ... want me to stay?”

“Of course! It was obvious that the humans didn’t treat you right. Óin says their healers are rather bad, but they still could have made more of an effort to treat your fever. He suspects they neglected you on purpose.”

“I have no family here ...”

“Still. They ought to take care of everyone equally.” 

Bofur’s big hand still rests on his shoulder, he notices, even though there is no need for him to sit upright anymore. 

“What’s this?”

Alfrid stiffens. Bofur must have noticed one of his secret pockets. 

“Must be uncomfortable to sleep on that. Want to take off your shirt? It’s ruined anyway.”

He has to agree, they cut off the sleeve covering his injured arm, so it is not much use. Except for hiding his things. The one Bofur has found ... “That’s the woodcarving you gave me.”

“Oh! You still have it!” For some reason, Bofur seems to be delighted at this fact. “When you are in your room, we can put it on the bedside table.”

“It is a portrait, isn’t it?” He just has to know. 

“Well ...” Bofur scratches his head under the hat. “Actually ... sort of ... yes.”

“Why?”

“You’re nice to look at and ... I ... well. I was thinking of you and it sort of carved itself.” 

“It is beautiful.” More than that. It makes him feel good to look at it. He had never quite understood why people liked art ... but this ...

Bofur beams. “Thank you! I am rather proud of how it turned out – wouldn’t have thought I’d be able to do you justice.”

It does not do him justice. It is merciful. There is a reason he only recognized what it is meant to be when he saw his own reflection in the dark lake, illuminated only by fire. 

There are other questions he has. “Now that you know ... will you ... will you kiss me anymore?” Part of him is frightened, and he doesn’t really know why. He lived almost his whole life without ever being kissed ... 

“Only if you want to.” 

An answer that doesn’t make any sense. The arm around his shoulders is still there, which is good. 

“I admit I am a tad bit unsure ... you’re so, I don’t know, fragile. I’d hate to hurt you.”

Alfrid remains silent. He just cannot make sense of this. 

“You heard what Óin said, and, well, he does have a point. You seem to have no family or friends, and ... I wouldn’t want to take advantage ...”

“I want you to kiss me.” Maybe that will suffice, although he has no idea why he needs to say it. Is it not obvious? 

“If that is so ...” Bofur changes his position slightly and leans in for a kiss. It is warm and soft and wonderful, and Alfrid knows he is lost. He will not be able to live without this again. 

“Please don’t leave”, he whispers when Bofur withdraws. 

“No worries, I will stay right here with you.” A short silence ensues. “Except when I need the privy. I suppose you will have to use the chamber pot, so ... “ Bofur interrupts himself. “I will stay in Erebor, if that’s what you mean.” He kisses Alfrid’s forehead. “Maybe you want to sleep some?”

Alfrid does not want to sleep, does not want to miss a single moment, but he falls asleep nevertheless.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, warning, last part of this chapter is going to be a bit icky, with a description of lack of hygiene. Not too bad, but maybe don't read it while eating. ;)

When he wakes up, Bofur is not there anymore. However, there is someone else. The hobbit. 

“Mr. Baggins?”

“Yes, that’s me. Bofur asked me to stay with you while he inspects your room.” The small creatures smiles. “He told me how you got that nasty wound on your arm. Well done!”

“I didn’t actually do much ...”

“Why, yes, that’s exactly what I would say about my efforts – but sometimes, even someone who is not a fighter can make a difference.”

“What did you do?” Bilbo Baggins is a bit plumper than Alfrid, not as frail-looking, but much shorter, so it sort of evens out. He does not look like a fighter at all. 

“Let me think. I did manage to win some time when we were captured by trolls, although that was partly my fault, so it doesn’t really count. And then, well, I distracted some orcs here or there, but I am most proud of what I did in Mirkwood ...”

Entertained by the hobbit’s story, Alfrid feels as if almost no time passed when Bofur returns. When Bilbo has finished his tale, Bofur steps closer. “Your room is ready. Feel up to moving? No, don’t get up, we will carry you.”

“Why would I not feel able to be carried?”

Bofur shrugs. “I don’t know, you might have a headache or feel sick. Just asking.”

He leaves again and returns with Bombur. Together they just lift the stretcher that apparently forms the basis of Alfrid’s makeshift bed. 

They carry him effortlessly, until suddenly, Bofur stops. 

“Careful!” Bombur cautions. “Don’t you think you should turn around to see where you are going?

“Nah, no need, we’re almost there.”

And indeed, soon after, they set the stretcher down in what looks somewhat like a room ... only that it is carved out of stone instead of built. 

“Here we are. Do you want to wash before you get into bed? I have been able to find a nightgown that might fit you.”

“I don’t think I can get up.”

“Oh, you would not need to. I could actually fetch some water and wash you with a wet cloth. Not perfect, but better than nothing.”

“You?” Bofur has seen him naked before, of course, but this is different. He is way dirtier than he ever was, he can actually smell his own stench when he pays attention to it. 

“Only if you want to! I mean, you don’t have to, obviously, but I could also give you some soap water and a piece of cloth, and give you some privacy while you wash?”

“I want to do that myself.” 

“Alright then. I’ll be back.”

When Bofur is gone, Alfrid notices that Bombur has left while they talked. He is alone and weak as a kitten. To being alone he is used, but this ...

The only thing that makes him feel a bit safer is that the only way to get into this room is through the door. There are no windows, only parts of translucent stone where some daylight trickles in. 

He always wanted to live in a cave with a small entrance, where the bigger boys could not get in. This is as close to it as possible, he supposes. 

A cheerful “There you are!” distracts him. Bofur enters the room again and sets a bowl of water down next to Alfrid. “Some nice, hot soapy water. I couldn’t find a decent washcloth in a hurry, but that piece of linen should do.”   
He turns around. 

“Don’t leave again!” 

“You wanted some privacy, didn’t you? Should I wait outside? Just call for me when you’re ready?”

“Yes.” How humiliating! He may have worded it like an order, but there is no mistaking his words for anything but begging. 

However, Bofur doesn’t comment, just goes outside and leaves the door ajar. 

Alfrid sits up, which costs him a great deal of strenght, wriggles out of his ruined shirt and removes his treasured possessions from the secret pockets. Then he dips the cloth into the water and starts washing. His armpits are where most of the stench comes from, so he does them first. It is difficult to wash with his left arm, and after he managed it, he is so tired he just sinks back onto the bed. 

Maybe he should ask for help after all ... but no. There is one thing he still has to do. 

After a short rest, he sits down on the remains of his shirt and pulls his trousers down. The people who took care of him did help him onto a bucket whenever he needed to relieve himself, but they didn’t clean him afterwards – not that he would wanted them to. 

The result is disgusting. 

He starts with his genitals, where there’s just the usual amount of dirt, before he takes another rest, rips the cloth in half, and continues to try and remove the feces. 

It is disgusting, and soon the water is too dirty to wash out the cloth another time. 

“Bofur?” It is so embarrassing. Still, not as embarrassing as to be seen in his previous state. 

“Can I come in?”

“Yes ...” If only there was another way to get some more clean water. 

“Oh.” Bofur stares at him, then hastily looks away. “You need more water?”

“Yes ... I am sorry, this bowl can’t be used again, I ...”

“No worries, we have more stuff than we can use. This once was a flourishing mountain-city, and we are just some few.”

Alfrid is relieved to see that Bofur holds the dirty water bowl at arm’s length without having to be told.   
He never wanted to do this to the only person who has been kind to him in decades.


	10. Chapter 10

When Bofur returns, Alfrid wakes up from a light sleep. Only then does he notice that there’s the crackling of a fire somewhere in the room. If the room was not somewhat overheated, he would never have fallen asleep half naked. 

“Please ... could you ... wash me?” He hates to do that to Bofur, but the alternative would be to dirty the pristine white sheets on the bed. 

“Of course! That’s why I offered!” Bofur smiles and dips a new piece of cloth into the water he brought. “I put some soap into the water, but if you close your eyes, I could wash your face.”

His face. He didn’t even think about that, but it must look terrible by now. When he closes his eyes, Bofur cups the back of his head with one hand while washing his face with the other. 

Alfrid notices only then that he has grown some stubble. He needs to shave. 

“There. Looks a lot better now. Really, what were they thinking?” 

“My arm was...”

“Oh, they splintered it nice enough, and I have to admit the skin around the wound was clean. Even so ...” Bofur dips the cloth into the water again. “It looked as if they had only tried to preserve your life, nothing more.”

Nothing wrong with that, is there? But he doesn’t say it. 

“Not that I have anything against the people of Laketown. I know you’re one of them. And they probably had a lot to do ... still.”

Bofur grumbles on while he washes Alfrid’s shoulders, chest, intact arm and belly with slow, careful moves. “Think you can sit up so I can wash your back?”

Alfrid does, and immediately, a large hand is on his back, supporting his weight. 

“Your hair also needs washing. I can do that if you like, but maybe later?” 

“Yes ...” The washcloth is warm from the hot water, and Bofur’s hand is also warm, and as he is held upright by the hand in his back alone, he almost dozes off. 

“Done. You want me to wash your legs, too?”

“Please?”

Bofur wraps his upper body in a big towel. “Just asking because you seemed rather reluctant.”

“It’s not ... I was too dirty.”

“Oh. Oh please, no need to worry about that, I have seen worse. Like, has Bilbo told you how he got covered in troll snot?”

“No ...?”

Bofur tells him the story while he washes Alfrid’s legs, apparently paying no attention to how dirty the trousers he pulls off are. 

“Could you also clean ... um ...” It is embarrassing to ask, but at least his private parts are a bit cleaner now. 

“I thought you mightn’t want that. Of course I will.” 

It is strange. Bofur has touched him before, but now, he does so in a different way. Less lingering, more efficient. 

“There. Now let’s get you into that nightgown.”

On Alfrid, the nightgown is more of a nightshirt. It just so reaches his knees. 

Bofur lifts him onto the bed, which is just long enough, and Alfrid notices how alien the clean linen feels on his skin.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just decided this is going to be an Everyone Lives AU, because I want this to be fluffy and hurt-comfort-y, and Alfrid is not ready to provide a shoulder to cry on. He has to do some crying of his own, first.

When he wakes up again, some time must have passed, as the room is only lit by fire now. 

Bofur sits on a chair next to him, busy carving something out of a piece of wood. He interrupts his work when he notices that Alfrid is awake. “Feel better?”

“A bit. I ... I need the privy.”

“Ah, of course. Chamberpot is under the bed. Want me to help you a bit?” Bofur puts his carving aside and pulls the pot out from under the bed. 

When he asks Bofur to leave and wait outside, he receives a nod in response. 

 

After he has crawled back into bed, he notices that he is crying. Strange. He is not sad. Or at least he doesn’t think so. There is no reason to be sad. 

Just confused. It becomes increasingly likely that Bofur is really just being kind. Which is impossible. But ...

Somehow, thinking about this makes him only cry harder. 

He wipes his tears before he calls Bofur back in. 

After asking whether he is hungry (he is not), Bofur sits down at the head end of the bed and starts to detangle Alfrid’s hair. His hands are warm whenever they touch the scalp, and never once does he pull too hard. 

“So, maybe that’s not a question I should ask right now, with you being so defenseless ... but ...”

A pleasant, tingling sensation runs through Alfrid’s body. What could it be that Bofur is so reluctant about? “Ask.” 

“Would it ... well, would it be alright with you if I ...” Bofur pauses. “If I cut your hair?”

“Cut my hair?” That is all?

“Not all of it! Just, there’s this section that’s gone all matted, and I don’t think I can save it, and ... I would not normally ask, just, you not being a dwarf, I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind as much ...”

Alfrid has to smile at that. “I would not mind at all.” Bofur would not make him look like a criminal that’s been shorn for punishment, he is certain of that. 

“Good. I mean, that’s a relief. You have such nice hair. I don’t think I got to tell you how nice it smelled last time I saw you ... well. I will get a knife, then. I’m sure I can make it so that no one will even notice.”

His hair smelled nice? Bofur must mean the last day, when they were in bed together ... Alfrid had made an effort back then ... more of an effort than usually, using the scented soap he had once stolen on the market. He did not usually steal, too much risk, but he couldn’t be caught buying scented soap, like a maiden. 

It had been purely for himself, because he wanted to be clean when meeting his ... his lover, just a little fantasy of his, where there was more between them than there actually was... and Bofur had noticed and didn’t think it effeminate, but thought it ... nice? 

He is still thinking about it when Bofur returns, triumphant smile on his face. 

“Bilbo lent me one of his combs, to get the lice out!”

With this fresh reminder that they are not alone, Alfrid starts to wonder. “What ... what does your king think of you taking me here?”

“Thorin? Oh, he’s alright with it. I don’t think you will see him anytime soon, though. He is still a bit embarrassed of how unreasonable he was before. He did offer the men of Laketown to move their children, elderly and wounded into the mountain for safety and warmth, but so far, only very few have taken the offer. So, don’t worry. You are most welcome.”

Bofur sits down at the head end of the bed. “Do you want me to show you which section of hair I am going to cut?”

“No, just do it. Is hair that important to dwarves?”

Bofur does not answer immediately, apparently busy cutting Alfrid’s hair. “Oh, aye, very important. You see, in the old time, cutting someone’s hair and beard was a punishment. After we had to flee, and many had their hair burnt by dragonfire, that became less significant, but even so ... even the less traditional ones who cut their hair shorter wouldn’t let just anyone do it.”

“Men do that, too. Cutting hair as punishment. But it is shaved all off ... I trust you would not do that to me.”

“Of course not”, Bofur says gently, his voice quivering for some reason as if he is about to cry. “Want to see me burn your hair? That is, if you do not want to keep it.”

“No need. Why would I want to see?”

“Well, there’s some trade with hair, or at least that’s what I heard rumours of, and I wouldn’t want you to think ... well. I shall just burn it then.”

“Yes.”

The smell of burnt hair fills the room, but Alfrid does not much care, as by then, Bofur is running a fine comb through his hair, so careful that it doesn’t hurt. 

“It’s hardly visible, I daresay. I thinned the strand out so that it doesn’t look like it’s been cut. Your hair will look just as lovely as it did back then.”

Lovely. No one ever ... in fact, if it came from anyone else, he would think it meant to humiliate him, to call him effeminate. 

“I noticed many dwarves have braids ... do those mean anything specific?”

“Nothing in particular.” Bofur combs through a section of hair with his fingers, touching Alfrid’s skin. “Though anyone who looks at Bombur would know at once that he must be married.”

“So, the braid signifies marriage?”

“Nah, not like that. It’s just, it would be very surprising if he had not managed to attract a spouse, you know? Lucky bastard.” Bofur chuckles. “Not that I’m envious. But I used to be.”

“You have very nice hair yourself.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you to say that! Do you really think?” Bofur sounds as flattered as when Alfrid first called him handsome. 

“Yes ... I like how you braid it.”

Bofur chuckles. “Thank you. It’s not much to look at ...”

Strange. Alfrid knows that tone of voice. It reminds him of music and colourful dresses ... dancing. Yes. That’s how the young maidens reacted when his brothers approached them. 

“If you want, I could braid your hair later.”

“I would like that.” Maybe there is more between them than he thought. “What do you wash your hair with?”

“Good question. I recently started using Óin’s herbal concoction, you would have to ask him what’s in there, but it leaves the hair much more shiny than soap. Doesn’t have any particular scent, though. We are just sorting things out, he hasn’t gotten around to anything more fancy. What do you use?”

“Soap with some herbs.” Herbs sounds much manlier than flowers. 

“It smelled a bit like honey. Just lovely.”

 

When he wakes up, the gentle tugging on his hair is gone. Instead there is the sound of the pages of a book being turned. 

Alfrid moves his head and sees Bilbo Baggins, sitting next to the bed, reading a book. 

“Good morning!” Bilbo smiles. “Fancy a cup of tea?”

The hobbit helps him sit up by stuffing some pillows under his back, then pours steaming hot tea into a cup. 

“There. Don’t worry about Bofur, we had to force him to get some sleep.”

“Force him?” 

The alarm must have been audible in his voice, as Bilbo raises his hands in a gesture of defense. “He would have sat with you until falling asleep then and there, if we had not told him to get some sleep.”

Alfrid would not have minded that. Indeed, he would have liked to just pull Bofur into the bed and ... but no, that is nonsensical. For one, his arm is broken, so he can’t pull anyone anywhere. And then there is the fact that Bofur would probably not like that. Or would he?


	12. Chapter 12

A couple of days go by in this fashion – whenever Alfrid wakes up, he first checks whether Bofur is there. Often that is the case, but sometimes, there is Bilbo. Or, in some cases, Óin. 

Óin seems rather pleased with the progress his arm wound makes, but grumbles about the rib. 

With the fever almost gone, Alfrid is able to sit up in bed, wash himself, and eat the admittedly delicious food he is given. 

Still, he feels rather useless with his right arm broken. 

And after his compliments about Alfrid’s hair, Bofur has not hinted at anything ... maybe he has come to see Alfrid as object of pity. Though pity is not the right word. Alfrid has always acknowledged that people like to give beggars some few coins and pity them, feeling superior. What Bofur does for him is not pity. More like ... compassion? One of those noble feelings he had always thought where myth rather than fact. 

A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. 

“Come in!” Bofur calls out. 

Much to Alfrid’s surprise, it is Bombur, whom he has not seen since he helped carry him. 

“How are you?”

Alfrid answers politely, claiming that he is well. 

Bofur listens to the ensuing conversation with a broad smile on his face, and eventually excuses himself. 

He needs some time for himself, Alfrid is aware of that, still, he does not like being alone with Bombur, not while he is so unable to defend himself. Of course the dwarves wouldn’t attack him, but ...

“Bofur spends quite a lot of time with you.” Bombur states, in a tone of voice that makes clear that he does not approve. “Has even braided your hair.”

“By his own choosing.” Alfrid rather likes his new hairdo. And not just because Bofur re-braids it every morning with those surprisingly gentle big hands. 

“Sure. But if you ever hurt him ...”

The threat is left unspoken. 

Alfrid blinks, more confused than frightened. Why would he ever hurt Bofur? There are lots of people he would like to hurt, but Bofur is not on that list. Quite the opposite. Bofur is one of the very few people he would actively try to protect. Maybe the only one, though Alfrid suspects he might do quite a lot to keep Bilbo out of harm’s way, too. 

“Bofur thinks you are being honest with him – you’d better be.”

“I am.”

Bofur returns soon after, and after a short chat, Bombur leaves. 

Alfrid waits a while, until he can be sure that his words are not going to be overheard. “Is everything alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Bofur frowns. 

“It is just ... well ... have I done something to raise suspicion that I might harm you?” He has not been very considerate, admittedly, taking so much of Bofur’s time ... but it was freely given. 

“What? No, not at all! Where do you get such ideas?”

“Bombur said that if I hurt you ... he did not say what would happen then, but I suppose he would not like it. I am not sure why he feels the need to tell me?” Of course they would take revenge if he were to steal from them or attack one of them. Alfrid took that for granted. 

“Oh! Don’t worry, he is just a tad bit overprotective. I will have words with him, later ... to threaten you so ...”

“But ... my arm is broken, I would be no match for you in a fight even if it wasn’t ... that is, if I were to attack you, which I have no intention to do ...” 

Bofur chuckles. “That’s not what he is worried about.”

“What then?”

“Well ... he must have noticed I care for you a great deal, and, well ... I have gotten my hopes up a couple of times, with dwarves who just wanted a bit of fun, and ... it’s alright! I just was a tad bit upset afterwards and Bombur noticed and ... now he wants to protect me.”

“Protect you from ... what exactly?” Maybe it is the fever, but Bofur’s words do not seem to make sense. Disappointed hopes have nothing to do with hurting someone. 

Bofur shrugs. “Getting my heart broken. No worries, as I said. Whatever you want or don’t want is fine with me.”

“I could break your heart?” His own heart beats faster at the thought. The thought that, maybe ...

“Please, don’t worry! I am not as fragile as that!”

“But you do ... like me?”

Bofur takes off his hat and combs through his hair with his fingers. “Aye ... course I do. It is rather obvious, isn’t it? Was rather forward of me to take you here, I intended to ask you first, really, I did, but when I saw that man, Bard, harangue you while you were barely conscious, I just ...” 

Never before has he been reluctant to take something he wanted. This, though ... he knows he does not deserve ... could not ever hope to ... “Would it break your heart if I left?”

“No! Nonono, that would be alright, really!”

Bofur is a terrible liar. Even now, when Alfrid has not yet stated any intention, his eyes look like ... like he is devastated by the mere thought ... 

He closes his eyes to process the fact. Bofur ... loves him? This is not possible. Things like that do not happen to him. Never did. Though ... lately a lot of good things happened. Alfrid somehow managed to pretend that was ... an exception, happening just because he got his arm broken by doing something he would not normally do. 

Now, though, he cannot pretend any longer. His life is changing rapidly. For the better. The thought is frightening, for some reason. 

Someone is in love with him. He has the power to break a heart. That sort of power, he has craved for a long time. The power to crush someone completely with a single word.   
He could make Bofur do anything, anything at all.


	13. Chapter 13

“Come closer. Give me your hand.” 

Bofur does so without hesitation. 

Alfrid pulls the hand to his lips and places a kiss on the knuckles. He knows it is a gesture of submission, has in fact used it as flattery before, but with Bofur it doesn’t feel that way. It just feels like a kiss. “I will stay.” He does not know what else to say. There are many empty, flattering words he could use, but they would not feel right. 

“Good! I mean, it is good that you have made a decision! I mean ... I ... am glad you will stay.”

The way Bofur looks at him ... Alfrid resists the urge to check whether there is someone standing behind him, someone handsome and brave and deserving. There’s only the wall behind him, he knows that. 

Still, he has never had someone look at him like that. It is almost too much – like stepping out of a dark house into a sunlit meadow. 

Alfrid closes his eyes. “Why me?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not handsome.”

“Well, I think you are, and is that not all that matters?” 

“I’m not brave.”

Bofur squeezes his hand. “Of course you aren’t. I suppose you got your arm wounded by mere coincidence then? Possibly fallen into a sword ín a really, really unfortunate accident?” 

It takes Alfrid some time to realize that Bofur is being ironic. “I wasn’t being brave. I was just ...” Trying to be worthy. “I only did it because of what you said about protecting children.”

“Oh.”

Bofur is silent for a worryingly long time, but doesn’t withdraw his hand. 

When Alfrid slowly opens his eyes, he notices that Bofur is ... blushing?

“I know I should be disappointed you didn’t do it because it was the right thing to do, but ... you did it because of me! I don’t know what to say ...”

“Also, I am not a dwarf.”

“Nobody is perfect”, Bofur replies cheerfully. “Remember, when we talked about those nasty, unreal dwarves? I would rather have a decent man than an unreal dwarf.”

Alfrid chuckles softly. Unreal dwarves. He remembers well. “You could have a real dwarf, though.”

“Absolutely.”

Is Bofur agreeing with him? “Then why me?”

“Because you are special”, Bofur says softly. “I don’t feel that way about everyone. Now, do you actually want to get rid of me, or are you just asking because you are insecure?”

His grip around Bofur’s hand tightens. “What? No! I mean, I ... I am just insecure.” It almost hurts to admit that. Everything in him cries ‘danger!’. 

“Ah, good. I was a bit worried.”

Now that they have talked, he doesn’t want to let go anymore. “Come here. Bilbo said you don’t get enough sleep. You can sleep here.” He pulls Bofur’s hand to emphasize his words. 

“Oh! Oh, that is ... that would be ... sure you don’t mind?”

“Sure.”

Moments afterwards, Bofur is curled up at his side, head on his stomach, carefully avoiding the ribcage. 

Alfrid smiles. Now, he can sleep.


End file.
